


Trench

by cuntoid



Category: sadsack
Genre: Begging, Chasing, Choking, Implied Stalking, Kinkplay, M/M, Sweat, Threats of Death, Threats of Violence, anyway this is a fucking mess it's nasty, drunk fuck, dubcon but not really, existential erotica, ish, lol, sexually violent talk, straight up nasty violent fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Taking a walk can clear your mind but it won't drown out the roaring in your marrow





	Trench

**Author's Note:**

> for an absolute bro, thanks for letting me play with your dudes :') i hope i gave em justice. thank you so much

For a second, Salvatore forgets that Stone is drunk.

For a second.

It’s the allure of that flush, bright over his cheeks, lighting up the little freckles under his eyes like constellations caught in a sky on fire. Sal can feel them just by looking, how it’d feel to kiss him there, to slap him, to smear the head of his cock. He smiles and it only serves to light Stone up even more. The gangly, giggling man beside him grabs his hand and strokes a finger into his palm, hidden in the laced temple of their fingers like a secret.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Stone beams ahead, smile as easy as they come. Sal doesn’t need to stare at him to know his joy, to know it’s spilling out of him like drool. He smiles again, but this time, it’s for himself. It’s like the muscles in his face pull some invisible cord connected to his guts, right into his fucking balls, and he takes a little breath. His right hand stops its natural swing, falters to pat subconsciously against his pocket. The inhaler is still there. The relief is enough to ease his quickening pulse – not in any real danger, not even close. He’s absolutely fine. It’s the molten roil in his belly, the soft, growing lump behind his throat. It’s Stone’s fucking finger in his palm. It’s the way Stone glances up for a moment and, even through the slight haze of his inebriation, his eyes narrow just a little. He smiles again, but this one’s lopsided. This one is like he’s sharing a secret with himself.

“Like you walkin’ me home, Sally. You’re such a gentleman.”

Another smile splits Sal’s lips and, truly, he’s thinking of what comes later. Thinking of Stone spread out and soaked, begging, absolutely miserable with it. The struggle.

“Oh?”

It’s barely a word, more like a grunt. It’s a syllable that travels in through Stone’s ear and caresses all the way down the eustachian tubes, down, down through his esophagus, vibrating until it hits the pit of his stomach and burns up in the acid there. The booze and the heat is the most wonderful thing in the world, everything he could want. It runs under his flesh sweet as sunshine. Easy as drowning.

“Yeah, you make me feel so _safe_. Y’know, like... _nobody’s_ gunna fuck with _you_. Don’t have to worry about anything, not with you around.”

Sal walks mindfully beside Stone, the smaller man’s finger laced through one of Sal’s belt loops. It feels solid there, a weight of comfort. Comfort and something else. Something a little less polite, but it’s easy to change the dangerous trajectory of his thoughts, to lift his gaze away from Stone. It’s always easy; he likes the domino effect of looking up just for Stone to do the same, to clumsily sneak a glance while he thinks he’s being clever. It’s a reminder of the booze, but Sal doesn’t mind. Not really. Makes him... softer. Only for a little while, soft until he’s not, soft until he’s bent in half with every little muscle tensed and trembling and he’s barely able to ask for relief.

For now, Sal looks around through the loose hair coming free from behind his ear. He tucks it back almost mindlessly, tilting his chin up against the light breeze filtering through the city. Stone tugs on the belt loop and strokes his knuckles against Sal’s hip, just another token of his affection.

“What happens when you’re alone?”

“When I’m alone?” Stone stares up with a smirk, avoids stumbling like it’s a gift. He’s in rare form. He looks like he’s prepared to trip over just about any obstacle with his rubbery, nimble legs, focused on his singular goal, but he doesn’t. He stares up from under those heavy, dark lids. “Well, who knows what c-could happen, when... when I’m alone. Don’t you think, _Sal?_”

Fall’s coming. The scent of it permeates everything, flows up through the nose and takes that route directly through to the brain, to the soft meat there, and it fills Sal with a sense of peace, a sense of collection. He can smell the stink of Stone’s arousal like rot, sifting up through his senses and inflaming them. He considers an immediate approach, just a lick of a reaction. Instead he settles his hand on the back of Stone’s neck, heavy, pinching his skin there like he’s a wayward pup, like he’s guiding him.

“Mmm,” he mumbles agreeably. Underneath his big hand, Stone stiffens. He stares straight ahead, eyes a little too wide, cheeks a little too red. Sal smiles to himself. He looks off to the side, like he’s admiring the scarce foliage around them instead of hiding. “Yeah, can never be too careful.”

“_Yeah_,” Stone breathes. It’s so hard to breathe now, like all the open air in the world couldn’t save him. Inside his jeans, his dick throbs. Each step makes it worse, every pump of his spiked blood through those veins and arteries and capillaries, all those channels and yet it still runs a straight line from head to cock. From his burning eyeballs to the very core of him. It warms him so unbearably that he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead, sweat prickling at his hairline, at his throat, under his arms. “You – you know _me_, c-... _careful_...”

Sal strokes the pad of his thumb along the line of Stone’s neck and drinks in the resulting shiver. Who the fuck needs a drink when this is available? When the slightest squeeze turns Stone into a thing that’s barely human anymore, some soft, breakable thing, something begging to be consumed?

Walking through the door is difficult. It’s difficult to not throw Stone’s slim body across the room, not to bite his ear and rip his clothes off. It takes every ounce of restraint to avoid holding him still while he fills him up with lube, to tease him with a single finger until he’s sobbing into the carpet for more.

He’s patient.

Stone leans in the doorway, fluid again. He gestures inside and tugs at Sal’s belt loop.

“C’mon, big guy. What’re you waiting for?”

“Can’t. Gotta run some errands, but I’ll text you.”

“_Whaaat?_” The smaller man leans into the bigger one, strokes his thighs. They’re huge under his palms, firm, powerful enough to wrap around him and crack his ribs until they splinter into his lungs. He could die like that. He could die swimming in his own blood from the inside, Sal’s strong legs around him and his fingers lodged into his body. Teeth sinking into his flesh. Images flicker and collide like pieces of some strange map behind the screen of his mind, complete only when placed together, transparent as anatomical acetate sheets. “Stay.”

Sal takes his hands by the wrists and smiles, slides them up over his hips and belly, his chest, and the look on Stone’s face makes him clench his teeth. Stone looks fucking stupid with it, smile wiped off his face. He watches his own hands with the same fascination that he might have with bones, with ligaments. There are so many under Sal’s flesh, rippled underneath with all that muscle.

He returns Stone’s hands and bows gracefully out of his reach, anticipating the swipe for more, and backs through the doorway.

“See you later.”

It’s unceremonious, the way Sal watches Stone’s kaleidoscope of expressions across the flushed-pink screen of his face. There’s his knit brows, the melting of those hard lines into irritation, the further immolation into some kind of ecstatic, self-imposed burning. He can practically smell Stone across the room, wet, ripe, absolutely ready for him, and yet he closes the door and turns away. One step forward, one step forward. Keep walking. Got to keep moving.

As he leaves Stone’s place, Stone paces inside as if bent of burning a hole into the shitty carpeting. He can feel Sal retreating like a lifeline going bad, like his pulse is slowing, like every hiss of breath is leaking from his body.

It takes a bit of time. All good things take time – isn’t that how it goes? Good things are worth the wait?

He’s no goddamn good at waiting.

His walls become too close, stifling all that creeping heat like pins and needles under his skin. Stone pulls deep from his flask, all the way from the bottom, and the sun hits him when he returns to the outside world. Just a walk. Just a little walk to clear the fog, all that steam inside of him rising up into his throat. Wash it down.

The booze softens the world around him, but it does nothing to dull that heat. Around him, people mill about, chattering in a big, comforting buzz that serves as a welcome distraction from his own dripping thoughts. He smiles at some of the passersby and manages to squint at the sky, so bright against his heavy, hot eyes, lazy blue shot through with clouds. They stretch and ripple above him, and there’s a serene sense of joy in seeing it.

Head turned slightly up, soaking in the weak sun, Stone is aware of a tingle at the back of his neck. It makes the hairs stand up and there’s a delayed sense of recognition, a hotwiring of his nerves in which he’s positive somebody is watching him. The feeling doesn’t go away even as a quick scan reveals nothing out of the ordinary. Random people out enjoying the day, running errands. Everybody ignoring each other to a fault, bumping against each other, as it should be. No creepers. No eyes fixed on him, and yet the feeling won’t fade. It swims up through the alcohol and floats behind his eyelids like a weight.

The hot, coiling pressure in his guts squeezes down, twists, begs him to dart his eyes around like he’s hoping for it, hoping to find a hot glare somewhere in the crowd. Hoping hands will drag him into an alley, hoping they’ll clap over his mouth and yank him, yank his hips, squeeze his throat the way he clenches down on all that awful emptiness inside of him. His dick jumps in his jeans.

The entire walk is filled with that tension. It was supposed to clear his mind, to let him relax in his nice little buzz. Instead, he’s pressing a hand against the crotch of his jeans as he unlocks his door and pushes inside, breath hitching in his chest, palm grinding up into himself, and all that trapped, shaky breath comes out in a high-pitched whine. He licks his lips and considers the flask, puts it to his lips, puts it back, brings it back up and swigs. He grunts and wipes his mouth just to shed his pants, his underwear. He runs his fingers along his dick and stumbles around looking for the lube, apologizing to Eggplant as he rushes past the sleeping cat to snatch the bottle. It’s slick with extensive use. It’s almost as slick as he is, and he gets on the floor. He pushes his face into the carpet and lifts his hips, reaches between his thighs to push lube inside with a couple fingers, drooling into the fibers, spooning and shoving lube into his body like it might summon Sal back to him.

He wiggles his fingers, hooks them, nudges and humps back into his own palm until he’s panting. Blood pools in his cheeks. It drains down into his face and he sweats, it drips down his forehead and nose and soaks his hair. It burns his eyes. Everything burns. Everything is an act of self-immolation, pumping his knuckles into his cunt before he forces himself to circle lube around his ass. He takes his time, fuck it. If Sal won’t come, _somebody_ has to.

Teasing himself open is almost too good. His other hand remains open, able. He considers stroking his dick and putting himself out of his misery, but the feeling comes back. The feeling behind him. He can’t crane his neck the right way, momentarily afraid – _what if, who knows, anything_ is possible.

“_Ss...sssaalllyyy?_” He clears his throat, swallows a moan. “S-Sal? You there?”

Silence. Of course. It’s almost as crushing as the slow implosion inside of him, as vast and consuming as the reach of infinite space. He feels it, like he’s falling into a black hole as he fucks his ass open, just a finger, just two fingers, just a little bit. Just a little more. Stretching himself thin, becoming less person and more space fragment, less real every second. All that matters is the buzz in the inside of his ears. All that exists is the wet, slippery squelch while he fucks himself, feels that ring of muscle pulling him in. He’s so inviting. He feels so good, so desperate that he forgets himself.

In deep space, over the monotonous whine of his own choppy breathing, there’s a creak. It’s not that loud; it’s distinctive. It’s enough. He’s gone far enough that he can’t stop right away, can’t reel himself back into his body in time to think straight.

“_You’re disgusting._”

He makes a sound, he’s sure of it – he responds, but the syllables just won’t connect. His brain skips. That deep dark sinking sensation goes away, entire universes blinked out from existence in the span of time that those two words enter the room. It grounds Stone in a way he could never do himself, brings him right back up to shaking anticipation, and the question poses itself with screaming, neon clarity: _fight or flight?_

“Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait for me – is that why you _went out?_”

A big hand at the base of his skull – flight is out of the question. Fight is barely an option as another hand grabs his wrist, yanks his fingers out of his body and pins the offending hand up behind his back. Stone tries to glance behind him and there’s a smear of black in the dim room, of two shining eyes and a mouth full of wet, gleaming teeth, all surrounded by black.

“_Mm-mmmsorry_,” Stone manages. “Sorry, sir – _I’m sorry_.”

“Went out to get filled up? Did you? Did you need cock so fucking _bad_ you went out looking for it?” A thumb in the front, one long, thick finger in the back, hooking Stone, fingertips feeling each other lazily through the wall of flesh separating them. One good yank and Sal could eviscerate him, could make an all-new orifice in his body. “Stupid fucking animal. You’re really only good for _one thing_, aren’t you, _meat?_”

“Y-... you _watchin_ me?” Stone shudders and it races down the column of his spine, ice threading through each joint and down the tender cord wrapped neatly in all that bone. “I thought –”

“Thought you were alone. Looking around, all fucking red and desperate. Can you feel it out there? Thinking you’re alone, walking around, thinking something might be out there... can you? Can you feel that? Like you know that I own you even when I’m not with you, you’re mine, you’re _mine_.”

Stone feels the clench in his guts, squeezing tight and hot around Sal’s thick finger, thick but not enough. It feels like drowning. It feels like DROWNING, and he’s gasping for air, whining and keening and pushing back against that finger, and the harder he grinds, the harder Sal squeezes his fingers, and any second Stone could be hollowed. He could be absolutely hollowed and he’d still push back begging for Sal’s cock. Begging to be filled again, to be made whole. His head swims. His vision shakes just like his skin, like every bare inch of him is jumping with electricity. He tries to make words and only succeeds in this idiotic whining, these almost-words that escape from his throat, the only things that can escape.

Sal rips his fingers out from Stone’s body with a grunt. He’s grabbing at Stone’s wrist again, pushing it just a little higher along his back, straining the muscle. Stone’s kept it there faithfully, carefully, keeping himself good and ready for Sal. Of course he’ll listen. Of course he’ll stay still, stay restrained, shaking, begging, absolutely in his place. His eyes roll in his skull and they just might tip back, fall down the back of his throat so he might stop fucking sobbing for it like some pathetic worm. Like _meat_. Like he’s just a vessel for Sal’s cum. _Fuck_.

There’s hair in his mouth. The fibers of the carpet grind against his cheek, his lips, they soak in his tears and his sweat and his drool. Behind him, there’s rustling. Unzipping. There’s insistent rubbing then, so incredibly hot that he melts underneath it, loses the ability to hold his hips up. Sal wastes no time, grabbing them, lifting him so that his knees rise off the ground like he’s going to ascend. Somewhere deep in his brain, Stone wants to warn him, wants to slow his rapid lift up and up and up, wants to stop the phantom nitrogen from bubbling into his veins and giving him the bends. He opens his mouth to scream it and instead gasps as Sal abandons any hint of tenderness. He lets go of the arm, forces Stone to brace himself up on shaking elbows while he lifts his bottom half off the floor and grinds his cock between his thighs, over and over and over, so tortuously slow that he can barely see straight.

It takes several minutes for him to notice the sounds coming from his own chest. He rises above the fog and he sounds like an animal. Sal sounds like an animal, grunting and heaving and growling as he grinds forth, as he twitches his cock up against Stone’s. He’s going to die. He’s going to have a fucking heart attack, an aneurysm, he’s finally going to fucking die and he’s going to do it drooling in his own living room with a fucking animal of a man behind him. Blood roars in his ears.

“_**DON’T CUM.**_” Sal leans down, slides an arm under the soft low of Stone’s belly and hefts, uses his free hand to once again crush the smaller man’s face into the ground. “Don’t cum. You don’t _get_ to cum, you exist for _me_. You’re nothing, you’re _nothing_, just bones, just a tool for me – _FUCK – DON’T MOVE, DON’T FUCKING **MOVE**. You’re mine now, mine to fuck and eat and CRACK OPEN WHEN I’M DONE._”

“C-c....crack open. _Ohh_,” Stone stammers, licking his lips. His face is so flushed that every open inch pounds with heat. His brain will explode and Sal will fuck him beyond bodily death, Sal will fuck him right into the next life, into whatever, into infinity. “_Yeah?? Gunna.... gunna rriiiip me open, sir? You – nnnnhhh, you... gunna... eat me alive?_”

Sal makes a sound that gets Stone moving, a sound that reverberates through Sal’s huge body and the drum of his chest, a sound so powerful and primal it winds into Stone and he feels like he might come apart right then and there, easy, so easy and soft like spoiled fruit, like the silkiness of rotting flesh. He pictures Sal’s teeth ripping right through him the same way his cock does. Sal shoves it inside, knowing, knowing full well that Stone’s slick as an open wound. He bottoms out and Stone forgets to breathe. He forgets everything except the blinding whiteness behind his eyelids, the stars exploding there.

“I’M GOING TO _CONSUME YOU,_” the voice says, and it’s barely Sal. It’s Something Else. It’s some creeping, awful thing, burrowing into him so deep it hurts, and Stone claws the carpet to scoot away, forgetting that an entire half of his body is up in the air. He thrashes, kicks his legs out. Sal’s got him. Sal’s got him right where he wants him, where he deserves to be. “I’m going to BREAK YOU OPEN._ Gunna lick your ribs clean and pull everything apart, **RRRIIIP EVERYTHING OUT**, play with you from the inside, LIKE A TOY, SPILL YOUR **GUTS** ALL OVER THE FLOOR. SPILL THEM WHILE I SPILL INTO YOU, **M E A T.**_”

Stone screams, teetering dangerously close to the edge. His dick throbs. He can’t decide whether to wriggle away or to wriggle back. It hurts. It aches until Sal pulls his fat cock out of his body and flips him over so he crashes onto his back, losing some of that precious air until he’s writhing like a fucking fish, and suddenly he’s electrified. He jumps and he’s much quicker than either of them anticipate – Stone crawls just an inch out of the way and MOVES. He scrambles to his legs and ignores that numb thrill coursing through them, the blood struggling to get back inside of his traitorous limbs as he stumbles over the couch, tries to jump over it.

“_FUCK oh fuck ohfuckohfuck_ –” Stone gibbers and gasps his breaths. Blood comes back to his feet and the pins and needles threaten to sabotage him. He feels like a deer, slim thighs quaking with it, with some childish kind of confusion like he forgot how to fucking MOVE. Behind him, Sal’s toppling the coffee table. He’s jumping over the edge of the couch like a fucking beast, and Stone barely makes it to the threshold of the bedroom before Sal’s got him again, yanking on his ankle so that his flesh burns across the floor, rubbed raw as his cunt, but it’s not his cunt that Sal’s after. He spits between Stone’s thighs as he brings him up, folding him in half so that he has to support himself on his shoulders, scrunched there, ass in the air and watery, bloodshot eyes staring straight up into Sal’s face. He no longer resembles Sal. He’s just a Thing, a Thing at the other end of the spectrum. Pure predator. Teeth white and shining and clenched, drool coming down in thin ropes that Stone wants to lick free from his chin, drink like it might save him.

“_Not going anywhere, filthy fucking ANIMAL. I’m going to tear into your belly. I’m going to reach ssooooo DEEEEP INSIDE, SO DEEP YOU’LL FEEL MY FINGERS IN YOUR THROAT. SO. **DEEP.**_”

Sal rubs the head of his cock against Stone’s ass and barely waits for him to soften, to be receptive to it, before he plunges inside. It’s so tight, such a stretch every time. His legs flail around Sal’s shoulders and the urge to fight back drains out of him until he’s shaking. Sal manages to access Stone’s dick, to stroke him, and underneath that mask, underneath the shadowed contours of his handsome, hidden features, Sal’s teeth are framed in a grin. He smiles, licks the edges of his teeth as Stone contracts and strangles his cock from the inside out. Stone hasn’t much leverage, here, not with his body contorted to suit Sal’s needs, not with his hands planted against Sal’s big thighs, nails digging in, holding on like he’s going to die without the imagined support.

“_**Beg.**_”

Stone erupts. He practically shrieks with it, frame vibrating into dimensions of pure, unbearable pleasure. It’s blooming in every single cell, every atom. It threatens to smother him entirely and in his bliss, in his horror, he thinks he wouldn’t mind one bit, not a bit at all. Let him. Let him die under Sal’s crushing force, under the slick, spine-shattering pound of his hips. He begs. He begs until the words blend together and stop making sense, until they’re drowned out by the sensation of Sal jerking him off while his balls slap against Stone’s ass, cock buried to the hilt in there, cunt achingly, deliciously empty. _Please please please oh god PLEASE Sally please I’m going to die please oh PLEASE SIR please I deserve this please I want to cum I want to be good I WANT I just fucking WANT, PLEASE, PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE_ –

Sal takes his hands away. He slows his hips and drags the length of his cock along the rippled flesh inside Stone’s ass, so invitingly molten, so ready for him, pulling him in like his body knows what it’s made for. Sal’s fingers come away, leaving Stone bucking up and whining for his dick to rub against anything. Anything to relieve that sharpness, that THROB. Sal squeezes his throat and Stone is reminded of his size yet again, all those big fingers, crushing into his windpipe and pressing into the arteries.

“_Beg for your LIFE, beg me not to TAKE IT and FUCK your lifeless, useless, BROKEN BOODYYY. FILL YOU WITH MY CUM WHERE YOUR FUCKING ORGANS BELONG, OVER AND OVER AND OVER UNTIL EVERY. HOLE. I. MAKE. IS. **DRIPPING.**_”

The way Sal leans forward to strangle Stone affords him a little contact, a little mercy-grind against Sal’s pubic bone. He undulates up, up, up, fighting for it as he fights for air, and Sal starts driving into him like he might puncture through and empty his balls right into the bleeding bowl of Stone’s hips as threatened. He slurs his words and sees through a heavy film of tears, mouth moving long after any real sounds come out, and there’s a tinge around his vision that matches the static licking at his chest, his brain. Everything clouds. On the rim of reality, Sal fucks him apart and promises his destruction, rolls his hips purposefully so that Stone’s dick is twitching and engorging and everything is so fucking TIGHT, everything _HURTS_ and _CONSTRICTS_ and he can’t feel _ANYTHING_ but the unraveling of time itself. There’s only this, only this moment, only his living room. Nothing beyond it exists. Nothing but Sal’s wet teeth and strong, calloused fingers.

“_Now. Do it NOW, **d e a d m e a t**, cum **NOW**._”

Sal’s fingers loosen only a little, only to allow Stone enough of a sip of air that an arrow of clarity shoots in through his brain and down into the core of his guts, into that hot, compressed spiral of heat simmering in the basin of his hips, and it EXPLODES. He arches into it, eyes rolled to the whites. Above him, Sal growls and it only makes everything stronger. He empties his dick into Stone in waves, pressed as deep into him as he can manage. He makes every jerk and pulse worth it, every single drop, balls swollen and tight and warm against his skin. There’s a sense of fulfilment. He looks up at Sal as he gifts Stone his breath back, graces him with his full consciousness. He rocks a little into it, giving Stone the very last vestiges of their shared orgasm before he pulls slowly free.

Stone is put gingerly down on his back, the animal in Sal completely gone. He hovers over the older man and smiles. Sweat makes his hair stringy, especially his messy, choppy bangs as he yanks the mask away, and Stone reaches a trembling hand up to push them to the side. His eyes are gentle. They’re knowing, almost apologetic.

“You okay?”

Stone barks a laugh that devolves into a cough, lungs still regaining their function. He wants a cigarette badly.

“Yeahh, Sally, _c’mere_. Lay down. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Come. _Lay._”

Sal breathes a laugh, just as wispy and light as a breeze, and goes to grab Stone’s pack instead. He delivers a cigarette straight to his mate’s lips, lights it before he settles down beside him. They touch hands almost absent-mindedly, like their fingers have minds of their own. Stone has a thought somewhere in the murk of his post-orgasmic bliss, something from the depths. Something about the ceiling, something that nags at him as he stares up at it. It’s a familiar place, a Mariana Trench, and he banishes the thing threatening to come up from the lip of that deep black drop. He shuts it up, locks it away. He turns and grins at Sal, strokes his stubbled face, the strong blade of his cheekbone. He runs the edge of his thumb along those pretty teeth. Such a handsome boy.

“Love you, Sally.”

He smiles hard. He smiles and looks up at the ceiling, and the flush over his nose is answer enough, but then he says it. He says it and Stone laces their fingers together, content to let time catch up to them, sharing pulls from the cigarette until the light starts leaking from the room with the descent of the sun.


End file.
